Through the Night
by Radioheaded
Summary: Set at the end of 'Merry Little Christmas.' What if Wilson had stayed with House? Is there more than just friendship between the two men?
1. The Long Goodbye

It's Christmas Eve, and House may be dying.

House didn't mean to take the entire bottle. His intelligence, his common sense had been short-circuited by the all-consuming pain that exponentially decreased his ability to function normally (what was normal anymore?) as the days passed by. The two months reprieve was not a blessing anymore; life had thumbed its nose as House. For the first time in five years, his pain had been taken away. He had been a full man again—a complete person, someone who had ceased to exist after Stacy left. But now the pain was back, and the man that could run eight miles to work disappeared with its return.

The fact that House's intentions were not to overdose is neither here nor there; he had swallowed every last OxyContin that had been obtained with a simple, sweeping forged signature. It was mechanical, almost; the pills went down smoothly, and before he knew it, his fingers grasped at the bottom of the empty bottle.

The decision, it seems, was made for him. If the painkiller turned into poison, clotted his blood inside him, he wasn't adverse to death. It wasn't that he wanted to die; he just wasn't afraid to do so. He wouldn't feel pain, and he couldn't inflict any on others again.

Yes. He knew he hurt everyone around him. His selfishness and pride let others sacrifice themselves without giving anything back; without acknowledging how much it took to be his friend—until he gave them a scrap, something small but meaningful. Like an ember that gave off the slightest bit of heat, these small tokens were enough to keep his colleagues from abandoning him completely.

The truth is, he did feel bad. Sometimes. He knew, as he set events in motion, that their patterns of occurrence would ensure pain and anger in those around him, but he was almost unable to stop once he began. Showing remorse would only be admitting that he was wrong.

He didn't admit he was wrong.

But today, as Wilson entered his office, he felt a twinge that could only be identified as regret. The man who spoke to him was not irate; he was barely angry. This was a defeated man; a man who looked at him with regret, with shame. Regret for misplacing trust so many times; shame for still caring, still trying to protect House, even as he tried to destroy himself and everyone around him. Wilson tried to reason with him, tried to make him compromise with Tritter, the cop who had started all this trouble.

House didn't compromise.

In this situation, like so many others, House's way was the highway. He would not give in to Tritter, even if his friends had to suffer for his pride. House realized that, if he were in fact dying, his and the others problems would be solved. His death was the key in resolving the situation.

The drug hit his bloodstream. The room became foggy around the edges and his muscles took on a liquid elasticity. His blood ran through him, spreading a poison that wanted his consciousness; wanted to put him into a sleep that he would not wake up from. He lay on his leather couch, moistened skin sticking to the cushions slightly, and felt his mind slip away. He let it, not fighting the contradictory restless relaxation that plunged him into sleep.

In his dream, Wilson was sitting at his desk, reading a patient's file. The phone rings. Wilson either ignores it, or doesn't notice it until the fourth shrill chime. He picks up the phone.

"Hello?" Wilson frowns; there's no immediate answer on the other side.

"Hello?" He waits a beat, giving the anonymous presence on the line the benefit of the doubt, but when no voice crackles through the line, replaces the phone in its cradle.

The phone rings again.

"Hello?"

"Wilson?" A voice whispers. House can somehow hear this low tone, and is confused. The voice is so familiar…..how does he know it?

"Yes?" Wilson is frustrated. He has work to do.

"Wilson, I think I'm dead." That voice! God, why is it so disturbing? A voice like someone's just been woken up—barely used, low and gravelly.

"Who is this?" Wilson's reply is irritated, if not slightly curious. He wants to know who would come up with this interesting a prank.

"It's me. House. Greg."

House pauses at this. He must admit, once identified, the voice does sound strangely identical to his.

"How'd you die, then, Greg?" Wilson's voice is thick, low.

_Are his eyes tearing? Why is he crying? _

"I—I don't know. I'm alone here. I can't find my way out. Please, please help me." House's twin voice is panicked; he is begging.

"Gregory House died two years of an overdose. I waited with his head in my lap. I watched him die five minutes before the ambulances arrived. Whoever you are, whatever you're doing, I suggest you fuck off."

"No, Wilson, please—he—" The voice, which is now laden with tears, is cut off as the phone is replaced for the second time in as many minutes.

The real House, the physical man who sits in the chair across from his best friend, is dumbfounded.

_Am I dead?_

Luckily, House rolls over in his drug-induced sleep and falls to the floor. The sharp drop and sudden landing sends his stomach to his throat, and white, milky remnants of the alcohol mixed with Oxy spills on the floor, trailing down his face and drying there, cold and sticky.

House can't really move. His eyes don't want to focus, so he shuts them, watching the spots behind his eyelids. His breathing is quick, slightly shallow, but he knows he'll live. Even in this state of disorientation, House knows his vitals will return to normal. He will see tomorrow's dawn, whether he wants to or not.

A knock sounds at the door. It's polite first, which means James waits on the other side, waiting for House to greet him. Another knock. This knock is longer, a little wore worried. James is the only man House knows who can express a vast array of emotions by pounding on a door. A moment of silence follows James' 'worried' knock before House hears the metallic sound of a key sliding into a chamber. The pins align, granting Wilson access to the apartment. Wilson squints in the dark, his hand clumsily fumbling for a light switch. Once it's found, a single word emanates from Wilson's mouth, and the mere tone of it expresses more than the word itself.

"Fuck!" The word jumps into the space between the two men and communicates fear, disgust, and sadness. Wilson's voice, like his eyes, are multifaceted.

Wilson has obviously seen House; and what a sight to see. The older man is stretched out on the floor near his couch. His head lays near a pool of vomit, some of which has stuck to his chin. A bottle lays next to House's prone form, and Wilson picks it up. His name is on it as the prescribing physician. It's not Vicodin.

Disgust is now the main emotion on Wilson's face; it's clearly displayed as he lets the orange bottle fall from his long fingers onto House's chest. He turns away to leave, and makes it to the outside door of House's building before he stops. His bare hands are on the freezing metal and the door is half open. The cold winter air pours in and his breath leaves him in visible clouds.

_ Just go. _The intelligent part of his mind tells him; _He'll just take you with him. _ But Wilson's intelligence cannot outweigh his emotions. The door clicks, metal on metal, and the black-jacketed back of Wilson can be seen through the glass door, walking back into the building.

The warmth of the apartment greets him, as House cannot. Wilson walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water. He walks to the bathroom and places it on the sink, then goes to retrieve House. He knows the man won't be able to walk, so he prepares himself to carry or drag his friend.

The hands that weakly clasp his are warm, which relieves Wilson. He pulls House with all his might, and makes it to the bathroom, albeit breathless. He sits House up and makes him drink the water, then turns away as House retches into the toilet.

"You really fucked up, House." Wilson has his back toward House still, and his voice is barely above a whisper.

House can't answer but groans slightly. Wilson turns and kneels, checking the older man's pupils and pulse. He doesn't see it coming; House's hand has somehow found its way to his cheek, and makes its way from under his eye to his chin. Long, skilled fingers trace Wilson's lips.

"Constant." House whispers, his voice lucid.


	2. Are You Alright?

House's body comes back to life in painful stages. His stomach wakes him, churning like an uneasy sea. Consciousness works its way through him, leaving him to assess just how bad he feels. His throat burns from vomiting—he can't remember how many times—and his lungs ache. His left arm, when it was shifted to try to attain a more comfortable position, screamed at him. House remembered being on the couch, then on the floor at some point. Obviously, the path between the two had not been gentle.

House sits gingerly, using his right arm for support. Every fiber of his body protests the movement, but he was used to pain. Admittedly, the severity was usually not on par with being trampled by horses, but still. He wasn't weak.

Weak or not, he feels hazy. Bits and pieces of the night were left intact in his mind while others were gone completely, as if someone had laid a thick, black curtain in front of him, so heavy there was no hope of gaining access to what lay beyond the shield.

House's hands shake slightly as he moves the blankets gingerly from around his waist. He pulled his injured leg to the side, moving his functioning appendage simultaneously. His legs dangled over the side of the bed, just touching the cool wood grain of the floor underneath.

_Cool…..Floor. How did I get into bed?_

His hand find their way to his hair and he runs his nails roughly through the brown (increasingly grey) locks. The scratching feels good and he stretches into the movement. The pleasure of loosening tight muscles is heightened by the dull ache attached to said tissue, and House's throat emits a low moan. He looks for his cane and finds it leaning against the wall. Deciding that he is well enough to get up, House moves for the cane and (slowly) makes his way to the living room. He winces with every step, but the frown deepens and spreads when he finds he is unable to take refuge on his couch, as it is currently occupied by someone with rather shaggy brown hair. House supports himself by placing a hand on the back of the couch, then roughly pokes the sleeping bundle on his couch.

"Wha?—Get away from me." Wilson snaps, fighting to return to the delicious anesthesia that was REM sleep. He curls into the couch, disappearing into the cushions and blankets, while House impatiently keeps poking him.

"Get up, Wilson." House's voice is harsh. He understands that Wilson must have arrived as he lost consciousness yesterday, which means he had seen everything. Worse, he must have taken care of him. This feeling is confirmed when he realizes that he overdosed fully dressed—and now he wore sweats and a tee-shirt. Wilson had seen House at his most vulnerable; he had called Wilson a functional vampire, and he was right. Having seen as much as he did, there was no way Wilson would back off.

_ Fuck. _

House thinks, then gives one last (particularly nasty) prod with his cane (torture device). This results in a desired response; Wilson stirs and finally rises. The younger man rubs his eyes and appraises House.

"God, you're an asshole. How are you feeling?"

"Aww, Jimmy, you sure know how to flatter a guy. I'm fine. Can you leave now?" House answers as sarcastically as he knows how; he needs Wilson to leave, to never want to come back.

"No." Wilson's eyes meet House's, and the look that emanates from them is stubborn determination (Wilson learned from the master).

"What do you mean, 'no?' Get out of my apartment." House looks pointedly at the door. He crosses his arms and waits a moment. When Wilson's static stance acquires no forward momentum, he goes for the jugular.

"Wilson, the street's calling you. Maybe it's your brother….If he isn't dead by now." House makes no eye contact when delivering these venomous words; instead, he waits for them to take effect. He waits to hear Wilson's shoes tap towards the door. Again, he is disappointed.

"You know what I saw when I got here last night?" Wilson says. His tone is suspiciously calm; he's playing House's game—and this time, he won't hold back. He wants to win.

"It was adorable, really. You were on the floor, right by the couch. You were laying in a pool of your own vomit. Total turn on, right?"

"Wilson…." House's tone is a whisper—a threat. Wilson ignores this, smirking at how upset the older man is getting. He continues, and his voice is cold, emotionless. He wants to inflict pain. He wants House to hurt—like House hurt him.

"You were repulsive; I almost left you. Honestly, I didn't care if you lived or died. But I came back, only to make sure you'd live to continue your pathetic, self-indulged life—If you could call it that." Wilson's eyes stay on House's, challenging him, locking him in a stare. House stares back, determined not to break. He won't let Wilson in. He can't.

"So I dragged you into the bathroom and made you drink water until you threw up. You missed the toilet the first few times, mostly because your eyes were rolling back in your head. You couldn't look at solitary objects—and forget speaking! You mostly grunted, and even cried a little. I didn't think you could, but you proved me wrong."

House grips his cane so hard his knuckles are white. His muscles are clenched so hard the blue veins that contrast so well with his milky skin bulge. But he keeps his gaze trained on Wilson.

"When you were done throwing up, I figured I should change your clothes—like an infant. So I got your pajamas. When I came back, you had pissed yourself. So I stripped you, and put your clothes on. While I was dressing you, you reached up and traced my lips. You said one word." Wilson pauses, waiting to see if House will take the bait. The older man's mouth doesn't move, but his eyes beg to be enlightened.

"Constant." Wilson says the word slowly, letting it roll across his tongue.

"I don't know what it means, but you needed to repeat it….then you started crying."

"Is that it?" House barks.

"Well, after I changed you, I put you to bed. So yeah, I guess that's it." Wilson moves toward the door, having said all he needs to say, except—

"You're a sad excuse for a human being. You didn't try to kill yourself because you're worried about Tritter. You OD'd because you wanted to stop hurting people—which you could do if you actually tried. But you can't do that, can you?" Wilson shakes his head at House, and a flitting feeling of sympathy moves through him.

"Because of your precious pride. You can't be vulnerable, right, House? Well, I saw you vulnerable. I saw you when you were an inch from death. And you were a better man then, half-unconscious, barely lucid, than I'd ever seen before." Wilson turns toward away from House as he says this, opening the door and peering into the hallway. He moves to step through, when a hand presses firmly against the door, shutting it.

Wilson turns back to see House inches from his face. The older man's eyes are fierce. Angry. Wilson braces to be hit, and his expectations seem to be fulfilled as House rears back. Wilson closes his eyes, but instead of a hard fist connecting with his cheek, calloused hands, pressed flat on his chest, push him into the door. A mouth closes over his and he opens his eyes in shock.

_What the— _He begins to think, then abandons the process. House's tongue presses against his mouth and instinctually, he parts his lips to receive the older man. The kiss is fierce, passionate and angry. House is not gentle as their mouths move in and around the other's. But House wants him—really wants him, and that's all Wilson can think about. So he keeps up with his friend; he reciprocates every stroke and movement because it feels right, and whole and like home.

Wilson breaks away after a moment.

"I'm glad you didn't die." He says, not meeting House's gaze.

"I am too, now."


	3. Into the Fire

Wilson is pressed against the door, breathless. House is pouring heat into him, refusing him air—taking it from him. His mouth dominates Wilson's, but its soft caress (so far away from the sharp mouth that threw insults so carelessly) is worth the asphyxiation.

House twists his tongue inside Wilson's mouth and sends chills down the younger man's back. Hands move from the brown hair, down a flushed neck. The slowly trail down a chest that bucks into, breathing heavy against them as they make their way down to black slacks. They pause at the thin belt encircling Wilson's waist; one hand continues to move downward while the other fiddles with the leather padlock. House's fingers press against Wilson's crotch; they stroke slowly, waiting for a response which comes quicker than the older man expected. The pants strain against a pitched tent at Wilson's waist as House lowers himself down.

He reaches the floor and slides his hands towards the smooth cotton of Wilson's boxers. His fingers stretch the waistband, lightly stroking the pale skin underneath, when his chin is pulled up so he is looking into Wilson's eyes—now so dark from lust they were almost black.

"Not here." Wilson says, peering over House's left shoulder. House turns and sees nothing out of the ordinary; the couch behind them is undisturbed, neater even, from Wilson having cleaned the area.

_Cleaned.  
_

He realizes why Wilson wants to move, and obliges. House breaks away from Wilson and moves towards the bedroom. He passes the couch and the unmistakable smell of cleaning fluid reaches his nostrils; anger had kept him from noticing it before. He looks away from the spot where his life had almost come to an end, instead looking back toward Wilson. The younger man looks at him shyly, through long eyelashes. The gaze creates a tent of House's own, though his is slightly obscured by his sweatpants' surplus of fabric.

They reach the bed; awkwardness is in the air. Neither has been in a position (ahem) such as this before, and neither knows quite what to do.

But this is Wilson's arena. He takes control here, turning House until the older man's back faces the bed. His hands wrap around House's waist. He slides a hand up House's back and leans into his neck, using his tongue to trace figure-eights. The muscles under his tongue and hand stiffen, as does something near his thigh. Wilson smiles into an increasingly hot neck and slides a leg between House's. Vocal cords vibrate near his cheek and Wilson gasps; House's moan goes straight through him.

He wants more.

He pushes House onto the bed as gently as he can and climbs on top of him. The sneering faces of the clash are crumpled as Wilson's hands move under the fabric and lift it slowly, revealing inches of skin at a time. House's stomach is flat; this surprises Wilson, as House lives to steal his food. His mind flicks back to the image of the older man shoveling down his pancakes, enjoying Wilson's annoyed reaction as much as the sweet, sticky almond-laced pancakes that remind him of a home he never had.

But back to matters at hand.

House's breathing is slightly erratic; he tries to keep it steady but his heart races under Wilson's fingertips. The shirt keeps moving upward, until his chest is revealed. His arms rise of their own accord, and then he is half naked under Wilson. He stares up into Wilson's espresso gaze and, for a moment, is unable to veil the flicker of doubt (fear) in his eyes. He hasn't been with anyone he actually cared about since Stacy. He doesn't know if he be open without breaking (if he isn't already broken).

Wilson sees a moment of doubt in the blue eyes and brings his face as close as he can to House. Wilson's breath is on his mouth and the remnant of spearmint from his toothpaste is blown coolly under his nose. Wilson doesn't say anything, but makes a soft 'shhhhh' noise and places a kiss on House's mouth. It's light, like eyelashes brushing a cheek; it's sweet and comforting and he knows it's Wilson's way of reassuring him.

"Not enough," House whispers, so softly it takes Wilson a beat to comprehend what was said.

"What?" He whispers back, then wonders why.

"Just a touch." With this, House pulls him back into a fierce embrace, pressing his body against Wilson's, as if trying to join their bodies (one complete man).

Wilson cuts of the kiss and tries to unbutton his shirt. Houses hands slide into his pants, untucking the shirt and reaching for the buttons on the bottom. Their hands meet in the middle and the shirt is shrugged off; it falls to the floor in a cerulean heap. Wilson pulls the waistband of House's pajamas, dragging his boxers along for the ride. He's not looking where his fingers are going and he's surprised when his left hand dips unceremoniously into the concave scar tissue of House's leg. The older man's breath hitches. His heart seems to pause, waiting for a reaction.

Wilson's eyes stay on the bed while his fingers explore the twisted knot of mutilated flesh. He massages the reduced muscle until there's no more damage to touch; he reaches whole tissue and keeps moving (and House sees no disgust, no disappointment in his eyes. He is a whole person to Wilson).

House's garments are at his feet now, and Wilson wastes no time in removing them. He moves back onto the bed, straddling House's naked waist. The feeling of cloth sliding against his inflamed skin sends his eyes back into his head. But he stops. He has to feel Wilson against him, skin on skin. He wraps his arms around Wilson's waist and pulls him in close, then uses momentum to roll to the left, where his good leg springs into action, flipping the pair so House is now hovering over Wilson.

"Your turn."

House's hands are steady and focused; they calculate their movements and execute them precisely, until finally both men are naked and pressed against one another, trying to remove all the space between. They're locked together, as if any separation would cause physical pain (maybe it would).

Wilson makes the first move, sliding his hand between Wilson's legs to rub the straining shaft that presses against his thigh. He looks on, slightly awed as Wilson's eyes snap shut and his breath quickens. He arches into House, who slides his hand up and down in strokes that he uses on himself (but in reverse). His absorption in Wilson's pleasure keeps him from noticing the hand of his lover is no longer clutching the bed, rumpling his sheets. House gasps as Wilson takes hold of him and moves slowly, achingly. The pleasure that runs through him takes him out of his body; it's color and sound and ripples of ecstasy. It's all he can do to keep his hand moving on Wilson, but he continues until hot, sticky fluid splashes onto his hand and stomach. He follows shortly, collapsing onto Wilson as an explosion rolls through him, electrifying every cell. His breathing comes hard and fast, synched with Wilson's. They lay like that, breathing in each other's scent, until House rolls away from Wilson.

The younger man moans slightly, like a baby whose bottle has been taken away. House turns back to him, smirking, and throws the tissue box he's retrieved at the younger man.

"As much as I like you, Wilson, I don't want you to dry all over me."

Wilson blushes and takes a tissue, wiping himself off. House does the same and moves closer to Wilson.

"Did you see anything, when—" Wilson wants to say 'when you overdosed,' but he can't bring himself to say it. He wants to know, but he doesn't want to think about the possibility that House could have actually died.

"I dreamt, right before you came in, I think." House says, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. "You were there."

"I was?"

"I was sitting in your office; you couldn't see me. You got a call, and it was me. I was dead. I asked for help, but you told me I'd died. That you held me as I died, just before an ambulance came. Then you hung up." House's words are gruff, short. It's taking all he has to tell Wilson this story. Wilson was House's final thought, final regret, and this is conveyed by House's unease.

There are tears in Wilson's eyes, but he blinks quickly and rubs them away. His hand moves under the blanket and find's House's. Fingers entwine and Wilson squeezes tightly.

"I'm not going."


	4. Not a Love Song

Wilson is walking down the hall to House's apartment. The sun shines outside, but there's a chill and he stuffs his hands in his pockets. His stomach is in his feet; he feels uneasy, edgy. He doesn't know why, but there's an ominous feel in air that seems thicker, determined to slow him, keep him away from his destination. He reaches the apartment and moves to unlock it, but as he does he sees it's already open, though by mere millimeters.

_ Door must not have shut. _He reasons, pausing for reasons unknown. He pushes the door open slowly and breathes out the air he's been holding unconsciously. The apartment is undisturbed. Everything is in its right place, except House isn't there. His usual position on the couch is empty, leaving a glaring hole in the 'normalcy' that Wilson now suspects is a façade. There's something wrong and he knows it; he can't pinpoint why his skin is crawling, why he wants to turn around and pretend he was never there—but he has to continue. He has to find House. He can't leave without seeing him.

He steps slowly, hesitating in the living room that for some reason is colder than the hallway. His breath hitches in his throat and he chides himself. He's not a child. There are no monsters. So what is he waiting for? He asks himself this as his reluctant steps lead him into the bedroom. The door is open and Wilson enters, relieved to find House's sleeping form tucked under navy blankets. He sits on the corner of the bed, careful not to wake the older man. Wilson gazes at him for a time, noticing how much different his friend looks when asleep. His eyes are relaxed, almost erasing the slight lines formed from his ever-present glare. Long lashes are splayed on weathered cheeks, curving up pleasantly (surely not an adjective that would be used to describe House's wakeful form).

The feeling that something is terribly wrong is rising in Wilson—but why? House is there, lying so still next to him, immersed in dreams

_ Lying so still…….. _

There's something obstructing Wilson's throat as he reaches a shaking hand to shake House's sleeping form. He's gentle at first. Something's wrong; he isn't absorbing House's sleep-induced warmth. House isn't waking up. Wilson shoves the blankets away from House and touches the man's bare forearm. The appendage is ice-cold and Wilson scrambles back from the bed, only stopping when he hits his head on the wall behind him, hard. He's hyperventilating now, and the blow makes stars appear before his eyes. He sinks to his knees. The last thing he sees is the body of his friend.

Wilson's arms, upon waking, immediately grasp at the space next to him. His hands come up empty, but there's warmth underneath them. Tense muscles relax and Wilson opens his eyes. He sits up slowly and hopes he's not dreaming—that the bliss of the night before wasn't a cruel joke of his subconscious.

It's the sound of music that moves him from the bedroom. On the way he sees his and House's clothes, strewn throughout the bedroom. He gathers his boxers and slips them on before following the sound of music to the living room, where House sits naked at the piano. Wilson feels a stirring when he sees this, but ignores this for a moment. If he knows House at all, (and he may be the only one besides Stacy who does) this is a test. The music stops when House sees Wilson; his hands move from the ivory keys to the frame of the piano and he pulls himself. House uses his left hand to support his weight and crosses in front of the instrument. The lights are on and they illuminate his body; he stands in front of Wilson, completely exposed in all ways possible. He challenges Wilson with his gaze, daring the younger man to look away, to look sympathetic.

"What do you see?"

"I see…you." The words leave Wilson's mouth before he has a chance to think; he sees House as he always had. House is strong and brilliant, flawed and beautiful. He always had been, content and complete or injured and depressed. The idea of what Wilson sees has nothing to do with physical imperfections, or even looks. It's the way House kissed him, how he pressed his flushed body into Wilson's as they explored one another. It's the way that House's omniscient blue eyes study him, welcome him and sneak looks at him when he thinks Wilson isn't looking. It's the way House opened up to him, if only for a moment.

House accepts this answer.

"What do_ you s_ee?" Wilson asks, his eyes imitating House's hard gaze.

"A guy who really needs to brush his hair. Seriously, Carrot Top would be jealous of that fro."

Wilson rolls his eyes. Of course House would expect him to answer honestly, then return with sarcasm (though this doesn't stop Wilson's hands from trying to smooth down hair that's trying to stand up and orbit his head). He moves towards House and slides warm hands around an air-cooled waist. His head moves to House's throat and his tongue slides out to caress smooth skin.

House's eyes shut.

"Mouth breather."

"What?" Wilson continues, but listens to what will surely be an enlightening explanation for the off-topic comment that came out in a warm breath, heating his neck.

"You're mouth is freezing. I bet you breathe through your mouth, right?"

"God, House," Wilson says into his neck. "Just shut up."

For once, House listens.

The pair moves away from the piano and gets dressed, House in last night's clothes, which Wilson wrinkles his nose at but says nothing. House lends Wilson spare sweats and a shirt, and they sit on the couch in an amiable silence.

Wilson's mind wanders as House flips through the channels, finally stopping on an obscure British show called Blackadder. His thoughts have turned from the incredible events of the past few hours to the future. Unease settles in his stomach as he stares at House from the corner of his eye.

"Why did you do it?"

"Come on, Wilson. Just watch TV, ok?"

"No. I need to know why."

The TV shuts off and Wilson has House's full attention.

"I didn't try to kill myself. I—the pain. It was in everything. I couldn't think. I didn't think I'd die."

Wilson thinks about this for a moment, then realizes something. House is not sweating. He's not nauseous; he's clear and coherent. Focused.

"You took something."

"Secret stash," House smiles like a kid who's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Would have been much easier if I'd remembered it a few days ago, but better late then never."

"What about Tritter? What if he finds out about this? Or the Oxy? You're going to end up in jail!." Wilson spits the words at House and watches the Cheshire cat's smile fade. House's already thin lips almost disappear. His eyes close. They open to look at Wilson like a stranger.

"Why can't you just try to stay off the Vicodin? Just try! I can't—you can't go to jail, I—you're—"

House cuts him off with a voice so hard it could cut through diamond.

"Vicodin takes the pain away. Nothing else works."

"You haven't tried anything else! Half of your addiction is psychosomatic from pushing away someone who meant something to you! The pain's half in your head and you'll fry for it! It controls you."

Wilson stands up, in front of House. He sees that his words fall on deaf ears—he's lost the audience he fought so hard to get.

"It controls you." He repeats, and his tone is formal. Final. He doesn't talk to a lover anymore—he talks to someone hanging over the ledge of a building. He waits for House to fall—or let himself be saved.

House washes his hands of Wilson. "James," he says, making sure his tone stays steady, stays convincing. "You need to go."

Wilson tries to muster the will to fight, but he's empty. He's poured everything he has into House and come back empty; he thought he'd been filled with House's trust, House's love, but his hope was a chimera; an unrealistic dream that left him emptier than he thought possible. He nods at House, mutely, and goes to collect his clothes. He dresses quickly and leaves without gazing back at House, who sits on the couch. For a fleeting moment, House regrets what he's done. The cold feeling of guilt settles within him, and he can't seem to shrug it off this time. He won't allow himself to go after Wilson, though, so he turns the TV back on and eventually falls asleep there, bathed in blue light.


	5. Spin Me Round

House is floating in the ocean. The water that cradles his body, creating the illusion of weightlessness, is a deep blue that seems too intense to be real. The sun beats down on him gently, and he feels sleepy. The feeling is akin to when the Vicodin content in his bloodstream becomes superfluous. It's like something else controls his body; it tells his muscles to relax until he feels as flexible as putty. His mind lets go too, and he can slip into a deliciously numb sleep. His problems, his pain—nothing matters anymore because he's removed. He watches the situation from miles away, as if he were on a plane coasting over a city. He stays this way, floating into the vast emptiness of the ocean, letting the salty embrace rock him gently.

But then something's wrong. He's swaying too fast, rocking violently back and forth; he lets his feet drop and tries to tread the water, but there's a current under the water that grabs him from below, pulling him under. He opens his eyes—tries to focus, but he can't see anything in the suddenly murky water. He's trying to claw his way to the surface, to get air he desperately needs. His hands slide through the water uselessly; he's not getting anywhere. He's stuck. The light of the sun is so far away now, so faint. Then he's surrounded by blackness that envelops him, whispers in his ear that House is _his _ now, and that he's not going anywhere.

House tries to talk, to ask who the hell is speaking to him so far under the water, but his open mouth fills with water. He tries to spit it out but it moves past his throat into his lungs and down his esophagus. He's choking now, trying not to take in any more water, but his body doesn't listen. It tries to breathe; it's dying for air, for life, but the sea holds neither for him. House's vision is tunneling; he's only got a few seconds left. Wilson flashes before his eyes as he reflexively breathes in one last breath of saltwater. His vision disappears altogether, and as he fades away he thinks he hears laughter.

House doesn't wake gently. He coughs himself into consciousness and is leaning over his table on his knees with no idea how he got there. Then the memory of the yesterday—a day that seemed so long ago, a day that seemed to encompass years, floods back to him.

There's a bottle on the table and he uncaps it and holds it over his mouth, dry swallowing two pills. His breathing is returning to normal so he sits on the couch again and relaxes into the cool leather. The television is still on, and he directs his eyes at it but doesn't watch. The VCR blinks under the TV; it's only been an hour since Wilson left.

Every nerve in House's body is wound tight; the Vicodin is in his system, but he can't relax, can't slip away into lazy daydreams that leave his eyelids at half-mast and his thoughts far away from pain. _ This _ reaction, he knows, is psychosomatic. There's no reason for him to feel as he does; he's drugged and comfortable. The only other time he's ever felt this way was when he watched another brunette (darker hair, almost black) walk away from him without looking back.

He has to make Wilson look back. Without bothering to change, House pulls on his coat. He looks at his apartment as the door swings shut, and wonders for a moment if this is one of the last times he'll se it.

House arrives at the police station. He makes a beeline for Tritter's office, not bothering to answer the cop who demands to know what House thinks he's doing. The office is unlocked; Tritter doesn't look up as House enters, the cop trailing closely behind.

"This ok?" The officer asks, motioning toward the arrogant man with the cane.

"Fine," Tritter replies, leaning back in his chair. His eyes don't acknowledge the other man; he's focused on House. Studying him. Looking for new ways to chip the doctor's impressive armor. The officer leaves, and then they're alone. Together.

House is blunt (as ever). "I'll go to rehab."

Tritter shows House his teeth; it's supposed to be a smile.

"The deal's off," he says, his smile stretching wider. "We don't need Wilson's testimony." He delivers this bit of news like he's talking about the weather. His voice is not threatening; it's not even raised. But Tritter knows how to manipulate others. Every calm sentence that spews from his malignant mouth is laden with threats—his soft demeanor is akin to a snake about to bite; it sits, coiled and ready until it sees its prey, then strikes as hard and fast as it can. House is Tritter's prey.

_The log._ House realizes. Tritter knows about the Oxy.

Tritter watches realization dawn on House's face. He stands up, taking his jacket from the back of his chair. He's now beside his desk, looking House in the eye.

"You're a smart man, Gregory (but I'm smarter)." House's hands twitch, balling into fists.

"But drug addicts are dumb (I'm enjoying this more than you know)," he continues. His words are gentle; he could be talking to a child.

"And they always make mistakes (And believe me, yours was spectacular)." Tritter slides past House, but turns back as his hand touches the door.

"Merry Christmas (I am going to fuck you over)," he says, clapping House on the back. He chuckles on his way out, and House swears he's heard that laugh before, but he can't pinpoint it. He waits there a moment, alone in Tritter's office, pondering what he's going to do.

_ Go to jail, _his common sense replies, _because you're a stupid, narcissistic asshole whose pride just destroyed his self-preservation.  
_

Somehow House makes it back to his apartment. He can't remember the drive home, but somehow he's parked outside his building, sitting in his idling car. He stares at nothing for a few moments before cutting the ignition and stepping out into icy air that makes his leg ache. His gaze is on his feet; there's black ice, on which he wasn't keen to slipping (though it would be the crowning achievement of the night.) The black concrete that holds his attention so thoroughly is interrupted by a pair of brown loafers. He looks up to see Wilson on his front porch, wrapped in a blanket.

"What're—" He begins, but Wilson interrupts him.

"I told you. I'm not going." Wilson's voice is soft—but is in no way similar to Tritter's. There are no veiled threats in the younger man's tone, no animosity bubbling just beneath the surface. Wilson speaks softly because he is almost afraid of saying the words out loud; he's afraid to be rejected, and almost as afraid to finally have House—just to watch him be taken away.

House's defense mechanisms are failing; he doesn't have the energy to be mean, to make fun of Wilson's trembling vulnerability. Things are being taken away from him, things that make him special. If he can't practice medicine, what is he? Wilson stares up at him from the step. House sits next to him, roughly stealing the majority of the blanket.

"What are you going to do?" Wilson asks, taking House's close proximity as an apology. He moves a little closer to the older man, leaning into him.

"The only thing I have left." House looks Wilson in the eye and sees that they're shining; the streetlight illuminated the irises and makes the whites glow, and before he knows what's happening he's kissing and being kissed. House feels something wet touch his skin and realizes why Wilson's eyes had such a sheen to them. His hands move to the high cheekbones of the younger man and wipe away the tears that mar his smooth, dry skin. Their kiss creates heat; their breaths come out as wispy vapor—it looks like they're steaming.

"Let's go inside." Wilson stands and holds his hand out to House. He doesn't take it to get up, but grabs it on the way in, squeezing Wilson's fingers.

"I fucked up." House whispers to himself.

"What?" Wilson turns back to House, not quite believing what he'd heard.

"Nothing," House drops Wilson's hand and they enter the apartment. "Nothing."


	6. Delicate

House lies in bed, staring at a ceiling obscured by blackness. Wilson is beside him, washed away in a Tylenol-PM induced ocean of sleep. The bathroom door hadn't been shut completely, and House watches as the younger man gets ready for bed. House is amused at Wilson's slightly narcissistic rituals, until he sees the man peer into the mirror with a gaze that is more than dark in color. Wilson stares at his reflection, gazes into the depths of his own eyes—looking for something, finding nothing. The gaze is broken only by the rattling of pills, when the russet irises are pulled down to measure a dose. Wilson counts out five pills and dry-swallows them with a gesture eerily similar to House's own. He turns the tap on and stuck his head under, letting a small stream coat his mouth to wash away the dry taste. House begins to call out, to tell Wilson the dose is too high—but he stopped himself. Who is he to lecture _ anyone _about taking the correct dose? So he keeps quiet, lets Wilson look him in the eye, lets the younger man's tongue massage his own briefly, without asking why. But he looks into the brown eyes as they break away from an embrace that sends chills down his body because it feels so _ right _and wonders if there's more to Wilson than he'll ever know.

Now he watches as the drug begins to take effect. The younger man fell quiet after about twenty minutes; his muscles relax visibly, taking on a loose elasticity that is displayed when he gets up to go the bathroom one last time. His steps are somewhat erratic, almost as if he were tipsy. But nothing is said, so he turns back to the bed and gets in unceremoniously, all sharp angles and elbows. The eyes that shine with compassion and unwanted sympathy during the day take on a glassy sheen; they move lazily until they close, unable to remain open.

"Wilson?"

"Mm?" The response comes from the back of Wilson's throat; his leg jerks quickly and his breathing deepens.

"I don't usually give thanks when they're due. But you deserve mine."

Wilson smiles. He murmurs a soft 'yeah,' as the chemicals force his body to surrender—to give in to an overpowering sleep.

House has had joy in his life. He had had days where that may just have been perfect. Before the infarction, he smiled (when it suited him). He had someone who loved him—someone to hold and kiss and_ be _ with. He had made love as a whole man; he brought God to her lips as they finished together, breathless and careless (because who expects what was to happen?) He had been a real person then, a man who could walk and run and fling his sinewy strong limbs wherever he wanted.

He had lived forty-one years before joy was taken away from him. They weren't all good or bad, but while he aged through them, he had the ability to feel like a person—at full capacity, with every fiber of his being. Then, in a sequence of four days that played over in his mind like a nightmare come to life, his joy way taken away.

Nothing could bring back the ability to walk through life as if he were invincible. There were no blithe actions in his ravaged body. Nothing was left but the devastating reminder that he was a reduced version of himself—a man to be pitied, not desired. Not even Wilson could lift the emasculated feeling that had hooked its claws into House's spoiled flesh so resiliently.

But he had brought House up from the depth of a normalcy that would be anyone else's despair. He had fought his way in and made it known he wouldn't be chased away, and this permanence, this promise of enduring love and passion worked its way into House's blood, running an unfamiliar feeling through him (he feels joy).

House ponders the timing of his salvation. He has love for someone else—and can feel this without trying to distance himself from the recipient of his affection (within reason—House is House). He's also the target of a cop bent on taking him down—a man obsessed with teaching House a lesson (so similar, but couldn't be more different). The days align themselves in front of House. They beckon him to walk forward, to let time ripple through him and look upon the outcome of events he set in motion—events that have the ability to break him, take away his ability, his defining characteristic (his soul, if he believed he had one). As he lays there in the darkness, feeling the presence of someone he cares for so close by (but so close to being snatched away), he decides what to do. He's not satisfied but has closure; his body allows itself to relax. It releases his mind from its cage and House is free, gone to a place where pain can't touch him for a few hours. A place where the colors are their vibrant, not the darkened hues of his pain-soaked world. As House drifts, his mind finds itself wistful; wishes it could stay away forever.

The next day creeps up slowly; it warms the windows with bleak winter light. Wilson is up far earlier than he; House feels him as he heads toward the bathroom to begin the day, but keeps his eyes closed and his breaths even. Wilson's loud morning rituals continue for an hour or so, until the oncologist returns to the bedroom, apparently finished. Wilson sits on the bed lightly, runs his hands up and down House's arm and whispers for him to get up. House parts his already wakeful eyes and Wilson blooms into view, framed by the just-noticeable shadows of his own long eyelashes.

"Hey," Wilson whispers, as all who wake others do, inexplicably (to break the fall into consciousness).

"Hey," House says in his normal tone. The depth of his unused vocal cords break the gentle stillness of the morning. His arms press into the bed and he pushes himself into a sitting position, even with Wilson's eyes. Before the younger man can react, House is kissing him.

"Morning breath," Wilson tries to say, but the words are obscured by House's hands and mouth. House is in his mouth, tastes the spearmint of his own toothpaste. His eyes open; he needs to look at Wilson, to see while he tastes and touches. When his azure gaze is reciprocated, House knows his lover feels the same way. His long fingers tap a melody onto Wilson's cheek and neck; the younger man is his piano and he plays as best he can. Wilson is pulled into House and his cool skin heats as a blush spreads across his pale cheeks.

"Shy?" House breathes into him, feeling the flush under his hands. Wilson answers by twisting so he's on top of House, pressing close, kissing hard.

When they both catch their breath and Wilson's clothes are in a gloriously wrinkled pile on the floor, House grudgingly admits that it is time to get up. He rises slowly and uncaps the Vicodin that sits on the nightstand, guarding him from pain as a dog would from intruders. He raises the bottle to his mouth and slides two down his throat. Wilson pretends he doesn't watch. House turns back to Wilson and sees a suit hanging up on the bathroom door.

"Why is—" But he stops; Wilson's eyes plead him to just put the clothes on.

"You put in your plea today. Please."

House decides not to answer, lets his actions to the talking. His shirt comes off first, then his pants. He stands naked in front of Wilson and moves towards the clothes, sliding a hand across the younger man's boxers on his way. Dark eyes squeeze shut and air is sucked in involuntarily.

"God, House." Wilson rolls his eyes and his hands go towards House's neck, where a tie is being unsuccessfully knotted.

The day moves slowly for Wilson when House is away. He had only two patients, both of who are lucky enough to receive normal, healthy biopsy results. He sits in his office, waiting, while time speeds up and slows, toying with his mind. Twice he sits up quickly, thinking he hears that unmistakable step-thump of House's gait—but each time proves to be a phantom spasm of his hearing synapses. He has things to do—charts to sign, surgical notes to read, but his mind wanders every times words cross the threshold from his eyes to his mind. _ Is House ok? What's he doing right now? How could a cop be so relentless to strike a man down—a doctor? What's he going to do? What am i I /i going to do if he goes to prison?_

Wilson's reverie is broken by a flash of black and blue that limps past his door. He's out of his seat instantly—at the door a second later. He runs after House, stopping only at the elevator, which the older man seems so keen to ride.

"What happened? What are you doing?"

House turns, looks at him. The blue eyes gaze back coolly. "I'm checking myself into rehab," He says, then steps into the elevator. The doors begin to close, when a hand reaches out and pulls Wilson into the threshold, right in the way of the doors. The audience in the hall watch, agape (especially Cameron) as House places a kiss on Wilson's lips, soft and quick, and then pushes the man from the elevator.

Wilson presses his fingers to his lips and wonders if House's had been there at all.


	7. Volcano

Wilson sits in his darkened office with a bag of House's clothes. He thinks of the trip he made during his lunch break, the gathering of assorted underwear, socks, pants and tee shirts. He feels he's intruded upon House's space, as if it's only alright to be in the apartment when House is there. But he pushes away the sense of intrusion that sits heavily in his stomach and prepares to walk two hundred feet to an elevator that will take him to see the owner of the belongings that he holds (crushes) in his lap. The odd impulse to breathe in the clean detergent smell of House's clothes (that still carries the musk of its owner) runs over him, and the red lips and tongue of the Rolling Stones logo come up to meet his nose. He stays like this for a moment before leaving, pushing his way into the hall, looking back only slightly at the office connected to his.

His feet may as well have been coated with a thick layer of concrete; his steps are slow and hesitant. He wants nothing more than to go home with House, to kiss and touch and taste, but he can't. He's stuck, forced to watch a man endure chronic, mind-numbing pain while detoxing. But he gets in the elevator; he can't do anything but veil his eyes and let his physical presence give House some sort of comfort. He's made it to the elevator. The button lights up under his outstretched fingers and he listens as the machine idly clicks, slowly making its way down to him. A melodious ding sounds its arrival and he steps in, greeted with fragrant air that feels thick; it stifles him, makes him breathe through his mouth so he doesn't drown in the scent, trying to find House among the swirling remnants left behind by overzealous perfume and cologne wearers.

He presses the correct floor and begins shaking, but takes deep breaths to try and calm down. He doesn't want to see the pain in House again; it was all he could do to bear it last time. But he can't go back now; the doors open and he's forced into the hall, where he sees House crouched with his head against the window in the Rehabilitation common room. He pauses, watching House's breaths as they're reflected on the frosty window.

Out.

A ripple flows across the glass, spreading a mist that stretches out, reaching out to touch all the corners before—

In.

The air is sucked back, pulled into its origin. The mist leaves the glass and Wilson imagines it flowing into House's mouth, coating his throat and moving into his lungs. But he knows nothing in House is that light, that free; House is trapped in his body, forced to watch everything around him move without restraint, without thought. Without hesitation. So Wilson moves this way, without hesitation, but towards House. For him. With him; with one hand he reaches out to take House, help him keep up with the current that carries everyone else gently while simultaneously pushing him to the bottom.

Wilson movies quietly, or House's thoughts wrap him in a sound barrier, but the older man jumps when his hand is stroked gently.

"Wilson." The voice is gruff, most likely from the stomach acid that coats House's larynx. The older man's eyes are encircled by dark rings; his face is scruffier than normal (Wilson knows this must itch) and is highlighted by sweat. Wilson sees that it pours off the older man; even his palms glisten. But the eyes, the eyes that_ are _House's soul are alive as ever; they slide over Wilson's form; they gaze deep into his brown depths and the younger man is frozen in a spotlight, waiting for the search to cease.

"You ok?" Wilson asks, regaining his voice when House's eyes lower. His hand holds the older man's still; the fingers entwine as if they were built that way—as if they were pieces of a jigsaw that had finally found their fit. Wilson squeezes the clammy hand that grasps his and sits on the windowsill, near House's legs.

"Peachy," House deadpans. "If it weren't for the vomiting every fifteen minutes, agonizing pain, hot sweats, cold sweats and uncontrollable shaking, this would be like that week in Acapulco." Wilson sees House's eyes roll, watches them take on a nasty sheen, but lets it go. This is House.

Wilson leans his head back on the glass and lets it cool him; he's flushed and it feels good, like emerging from the ocean on a hot day. The cold clings to him, wrapping its icy hands around his neck. But the hand is trembling, and Wilson starts when he realizes that the cool compress wrapping itself around him is that of his lover ( he tries out the word in his mind and it fits….better than boyfriend ever would).

"I'm so sorry," He whispers, choking on tears that infiltrate his dark eyes. But he won't let them fall; he won't cry when he has no pain; when all he's done is inflict it on someone else.

"All you tried to do was help me. Every step of the way. I should've taken the deal on my own."

"But you're here now." Wilson moves then, breaches the space between the two. He's on his knees so House is leaning down over him, hands splayed across cheeks that feel feverish. House doesn't open his mouth a first, deciding instead to explore Jimmy's ample lips (his lips). He runs a cool tongue over the top curve, breathing out at the same time (and Wilson feels the cool wetness of House, and smells mint). The lower lip is nibbled on, slowly. Each crevice, each line is explored.

"Endorphins?" Wilson breathes, but is obscured by House's tongue. Its coolness invades his mouth, then slides out for a moment.

"Better than cutting myself," And the tongue is back, playing tag with his own. Wilson brings his hand up to House's hair and slides it through, wincing slightly at the sweat that covers his fingers. He's kissed harder in response; House is pulling his attention away from his vices and back to his virtues.

And his virtues are _ good.  
_

"Greg House." A voice barks.

"Five more minutes, Voldemort." House says, his fingers covering Wilson's mouth. He's claiming them; they're for his use only.

"Visiting hours are over, and I need to check that bag." Wilson hands over the plastic bag with House's clothes, and stands. He pulls House along for the ride. Their mouths meet again, but it's a goodbye. Wilson turns away, gets to the door before he looks back.

"Miss me."

Wilson drives home in the cold; at this moment he wishes he drove an automatic car so he wouldn't have to put any effort into shifting. The car whines, winding out under him as he thinks of House._ Stop it. There was nothing you could do. Just trying to save him. Keep him. Self preservation. House preservation. _The car is high pitched now, begging him to move into a higher gear. He chants in his head, bringing his focus back to the task at hand.

Clutch in. Shift. Gas. Stop light. Brake. Clutch. Nuetral Clutch. First. Clutch. Gas. Second.

Before he realizes where he is, he's parked outside House's apartment, and he knows he's at the right place. He doesn't belong anywhere else but here; to wait for House, to keep his apartment ready (to pretend everything is alright while the world crumbles swiftly below him). Then he's in the apartment, standing static near the couch, waiting for House to pop out, to push him up against the wall and take his thoughts away. But he's alone and cold and depressed, and nothing is going to change that tonight, so he moves to the bathroom and turns the shower on. He waits until the steam obscures everything, billowing out against the cool air around him, before he undresses. His clothes stick to him, protesting a little as he shucks them away from his body. They land on the floor with a muffled thump and Wilson wishes they could be joined with a pair of blue jeans and a band tee. But wishes are wasted here, and Wilson knows this as he climbs into the scalding hot shower. He gasps at the water, then adjusts as it turns his pale skin bright red. He thinks of House in rehab, weak and humiliated, and brings his hands to his face. The image doesn't suit house; it never will. House is strong and proud and fierce; he needs to be thought of that way.

So Wilson's thoughts move to House's lips (or more precisely, what the do to _his_ lips). He feels House's tongue, his hands, move up and down his arms, and all the warmth he's absorbing heads downwards. He feels himself stiffen; his eyes close as his hand wraps around his warm, wet length and House's eyes are on him, watching. Taking him in. His pace quickens and now it's House who's touching him, who's holding him and telling him to match his pace; to come with him. It's House's hand that pumps wildly; it's the older man's mouth that sucks and nibbles on his neck, working all the spots that make Wilson shiver in delight (House knows he's ticklish).

Then Wilson comes, and it's his own hand that has pushed him over the edge (and is now covered in his own sticky mess). It's his mind that supplied his lover, and the older man is spirited away, tucked back into memory. Wilson sits, lets the water wash over him. He lets himself feel despair for a moment, then pretends House is with him once more.

House, having finally passed out from pain, is back in his own apartment, laying next to a sleeping Wilson.

"Where are you?" The younger man asks, shifting in his sleep.

"Right here," House answers. Then he turns, moving into Wilson's heat. He closes his eyes and breathes in a scent that compliments his, that makes his whole. Then he's asleep, cradled by dreams.


	8. Eclipse

Wilson wakes up in House's bed….slanted. His head rests on the right, legs splayed across the left. The silence of the apartment startles him and for a moment he panics. _Where's House?_ But then he remembers and breathes again. He doesn't get up immediately; it's Saturday and he really isn't interested in doing anything except going to see House. But he knows he can't; he knows his presence can give no comfort. He is a reminder of everything House will lose.

Eventually he rises and stumbles into the bathroom, where he examines his face for so long it becomes a flesh-toned blur. His eyes shift and his face comes back into focus. Bags hang under his eyes. His skin shines, (nightmares he can't remember made him sweat) so he turns the tap on and gasps as his hands bring shockingly cold water to his face. House's towel is rough against his skin, but the effect takes. He doesn't look quite as dead anymore.

He stands at the sink for a moment before he returns to the bedroom. The bed welcomes him back and he watches the ceiling as emotions run through him. The world rushes, blurs past him, leaves him behind while he stands on the sidelines. He walks through limbo with baited breath, waiting for the outcome of his friend's (How does he describe House now, after all that's happened?) fate. The friend that he loves. That he touches, and when he does, feels grounded. Like he matters, like he's connected to someone. But that scares him more than he'll admit, because the feeling that floods his body with adrenaline seems to be scarily akin to love. He thinks that he's been in love before, that his wives all received his love. But now he knows he's wrong; they received contented affection at best. None of them made him feel like House did (like he's being spun around while staying still, like his stomach is trying to crawl out of his body. Like House's fingers are connected to his synapses, sending electricity through him with the smallest touch). It's a dangerous feeling; he stands on a precipice and prays he can keep House, because if he can't, he doesn't know how to move forward.

House is annoyed. He sits in a mandatory therapy group, listening to the sob stories of the addicts around him. He watches a young woman (barely 19, if that) begin to cry as she explains how she got hooked on cocaine and crystal meth. Her hair is limp, greasy, and she twists it around her fingers as she speaks. He looks at those around him and decides he has no business being here, that proving himself to Tritter isn't going to have much of an effect, other than lowering his IQ. The 'therapist' is one of those bleeding hearts; he interjects nods in between thoughtful gazes. As they move around the circle telling their stories, House's mind slips away; he thinks about his dreams. Wilson had been there, so close. He slid his hands through the dark hair, felt the younger man's heart mimic his. Tasted the salt on his skin. The taste floods back into his mouth, makes him salivate as he imagines running his tongue down Wilson's chest.

"Greg," The therapist calls to him, breaking his thoughts. He's annoyed at this; his mind is his sanctuary. He doesn't like to be interrupted.

"Dr. House," he corrects. "What?"

"Here, it's first names only. You're not above anyone, you're not special; you're not different. You're an addict." House looks at the 'doctor.' His gaze makes the man feel like he's being interviewed. It….unnerves him. He's glad when House finally speaks.

"Actually, unless anyone else here practices medicine and has a double specialty, I'd say I am different."

House smiles as the group.

"Oh, yeah. Is anyone else missing a large part of their right thigh?" When no one attempts to answer him, he relaxes into his seat (partly because a wave of nausea grips him, forcing him down so the bile doesn't come up).

"So you're above the rest of us?" It's the brown-haired girl. She stares at House, glaring.

"I didn't say that. I just said we're not the same."

The therapist tries to regain control.

"Denial. Doesn't help the process, Greg."

Twelve sets of eyes look at him, pity him. They think he's in denial, that he is unable to admit why he's there.

"You know what, Dr. Anderson? You're right. I'm in denial. My leg is psychosomatic. I take Vicodin to deal with the psychic pain that's a result of my leg being practically amputated, a decision made by my ex, who left shortly thereafter. But here's the thing. For forty-one years, I wasn't an addict. I drank occasionally. I tried pot—hell, I've had coke. But you're right. There's no correlation between a physical deformity that was a direct result of ineptness in this very hospital. If you'll excuse me, I have to vomit."

House gets up, leaves the room and heads for the closest bathroom. Tears run down his face as he throws up, and he tells himself it's from the strain (but he knows it's for all he's lost, and all he still stands to lose).

House is in his room now (if you could call it that), laying on his back. There's a bed above his head, but it's empty. He isn't sure if Cuddy called in a favor or if it's the luck of the draw, but he's grateful for it. He lays, curled towards the wall to take pressure off his right side. His leg is hyperaware; lava has replaced his blood and he can't breathe normally. His head pounds in time with his heart; he chokes back vomit every five minutes. Cameron tried to visit him earlier, tried to comfort him. She sat with him, talking about nothing, really. Her hands had reached for him after awhile; she meant to touch him, hug him maybe, but he pulled away. Her eyes got bright, be he ignored this. All she had to offer was pity, something he didn't need. Her eyes were too soft, too inviting. i She /i was the functional vampire, not Wilson. She wanted to suck him dry, take away all his wounds. Absorb him. He left her there, sitting on the visitor's couches. She stood up, tried to say something, but thought better of it. Her fingers (like birds fluttering) went to her lips and she left.

He's glad Wilson hasn't come to visit him today; as good as it would have been to see him, it would have been worse to watch him go.Now House thinks of the only regret he'll have if he goes to jail. Wilson's brown gaze is in his eyes; he sees him in his mind. He wants Wilson, wants to press against him and breathe in the scent of his skin. It differs with the time of day, his skin. In the morning it's sweet, almost. Clean. Shampoo and soap. In the afternoon it's fragrant, starched. His clothes mixed with the smell of aftershave. House likes Wilson's night smell the best; he smells the cool winter cold on him. When they lay in bed together, Wilson smells like House mixed with the faint smell of fabric softener.

In his mind he's kissing Wilson, slowly moving his hand down the younger man's chest. Moving his fingers behind boxers, feeling the dark curls beneath. He stiffens, but he makes no move to relieve himself. He won't do that here.

House is in the common room. It's arts and crafts time and he fiddles with clay. He digs his nails into it and feels a memory wash over him; he's young and he's playing with this same play-doh, but it's bright blue. He's dropped some and it lands on the carpet. He tries to get it out, but the more he touches it, the deeper it soaks in, until it's ingrained so deeply his fingers do nothing but pull stray fibers. He's afraid now, breathing fast for fear of the punishment to come. Legs move into the room and his breath hitches, but he breathes again when he realizes it's his mother.

"I'm sorry," he gasps, tears already covering his cheeks.

"Greg, it's ok. I'll get it out. Why don't you go upstairs and play? Just wash your hands first." She ruffles his hair and kisses his forehead. He smiles, then runs away. Puts distance between the mess and himself.

House is so wrapped up in his memories he doesn't see the slack-clad legs that move towards him, then stop in front of him. He looks up and almost jumps when he sees Tritter in front of him, but manages to keep from giving the policeman the satisfaction.

"How's it going?" The cop's voice is low, soft. Never perturbed. Never raised.

"Great. In five minutes we'll be holding hands and singing Kumbaya."

Tritter smiles. He gets to House, and he knows it. He examines the doctor for a moment, taking in the gleam of sweat on the skin. The bags under his eyes, the shaking hands that rest in clay. House is a reduced man, and Tritter eats it up.

"You know this means nothing to me," He whispers, adjusting his belt. His pocket rattles and the officer takes out a bottle of Tylenol (dry swallows two).

"Why not?"

"Told you before. We don't need Wilson anymore. You screwed up. You'll go down for it by yourself. All alone."

House meets Tritter's eye, holds it until the officer looks away.

"Fine." He says. "Now get away from me."

Tritter listens, walks away. House looks at the ball of clay in his hands. It's flat. He's crushed it.

He gets up, goes back into his room. He thinks of Wilson, how he's doing. What he's doing.

At this very moment, Wilson is in House's bed, dreaming of him.


	9. Adore

Wilson likes Tylenol PM. It blurs time, makes the hours go by quicker. It puts him in a trance, lets him slip into a dreamless slumber (lets him run away from his problems). He's careful with it; only uses (abuses) it when he's desperate. It's Monday now; Sunday his blood ran thick with the drug.

He's at his desk, sipping black coffee. He doesn't particularly like it, but it counteracts the muscle relaxation and drowsiness. He'd started drinking coffee in high school, when he got his first car. That was what you did; a styraphome cup (along with keys clipped to your waistband by a carabineer) in your hand meant you were independent. Adult.

The bitter liquid sears Wilson's tongue and burns his throat and he remembers why he doesn't drink it in the first place. It's early, barely seven, and he sits alone in an empty wing. Wilson reaches the stairs before he knows he's moving. He knows he'll regret it, but he has to see House. He can't wait for the elevator; it takes too long, it makes his stomach clench in expectation. He climbs the stairs and knows he's actually moving; he's in control of his ascent to House. He moves faster, taking the stairs by two (are they multiplying? The number seems too great; he feels he'll be walking forever). But then the end greets him and he pulls the door open. He's breathing a little fast and takes a few deep breaths to settle his heart (that's jumped into overdrive for House, not because of the exercise). He stands on the opposite wing of the hospital, a corridor away from the rehab clinic; his steps are quick. He has to get there.

House waits for him. He sits, his back facing the glass wall. When the air in the room is forced out in a gust by the opening door, he stirs.

"You're predictable."

"So are you."

Wilson sits next to House. His body aches for the other's but he resists his urge. He waits for House, wants to be touched first. He doesn't wait long. House's shoulder presses into his and the older man is leaning on Wilson, letting him support his bodyweight. Wilson's head is on House's shoulder and he's whispering into the soft cotton of the older man's sweater everything he's felt in the past few days. He's sorry, he's tired, he's lonely. He's drugging himself into sleep. He goes on, until three words he never means to say slip out. And they rest there, sliding through the air, moving into House's ear. Synapses fire neurons and they're moved to House's brain, where the information is decoded and processed. And now House looks at Wilson, searching his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Wilson whispers. He can't do this today; House's trial is in hours and he's unloading these _feelings_. They can only cause trouble; Wilson thinks they'll weigh down an already condemned man.

"I…..you." House's telegraphic speech is ok, because Wilson understands. He relaxes into House and feels no trembling. The hand within his own doesn't shake. He says nothing but feels hope for the first time in what feels like years. He knows he's aged somehow; outwardly he's the same as ever, but inside he feels different. Divorce didn't take this much from him; he had been sidetracked before by guilt, sadness, regret, but even that didn't touch this feeling, this need to cling onto the scraps of pleasure and companionship (and he wants to say those words again, but he doesn't). So he stays with House, cancels his appointments and holds on for dear life.

The time is here; House is being called and Wilson gets up to go with him, but he's stopped.

"Please, stay here. I can't have you—you'll be—just stay." Wilson is pleading, begging for House to think again, to change his mind. But he doesn't and he's leaving. Cuddy appears in front of the glass walls (prison) and House moves toward the doors (away). He turns and his eyes are so blue they make all others look cheap, flat. And before Wilson can say anything, tell him it'll be alright (though his stomach tells him otherwise) House's lips meet his. Bodies entwine for moments (eternity), then separate. Wilson's mouth feels empty and he breathes and swallows the remnants (the taste) of House that cling to him. House's heat is still on him as he watches the man walk away.

Wilson is on the roof. The sun has come up and it's bright, belying the cool winter morning that swathes the word in a blue chill (a state of mind that seeps into the bones; where everything is cold and warmth is a fond memory that's not quite real). The city is underneath him and he looks on as its king. An icy wind makes him pull his jacket closer and he thinks of the day he fell in love with House.

It is a Thursday. Wilson is outside a patient's room (not his), waiting for House. The door is left slightly open, but the hall is empty except for him and he can barely hear the conversation as it is, until House begins to yell.

"Yes! I want you to scream, to cry, to tell me that your life _means _something, because I don't know."

Wilson moves away from the door because the tap-thump of House is moving closer to him, but then it's interrupted. He breathes out stale air he doesn't realize he's holding.

"I don't want to die." The feminine voice is barely a whisper, but Wilson catches it.

"Ok."

Then he really does move, because House is coming his way. He ducks into exam room three, interrupting Dr. Montgomery examining her patient's throat. He apologizes profusely, said he was called down for a consult, then fakes befuddlement about a room mix-up.

He's on his balcony looking at nothing when House appears next to him. The clouds move aside, let the sun through for a moment and then they're illuminated. The glass reflects the light and Wilson looks at House, sees his eyes. They're intensified; every shade of blue (and gold and grey and white and black) is highlighted and he's transfixed because House is changed.

"I heard your conversation with that woman." Wilson says (tries to be nonchalant. Fails).

"And?" House says. (He can play nonchalant.) His eyes pry. Without saying a word, he asks how much Wilson knows, if the younger man will take away his patient's chance at a new heart.

"House," he says, then smiles wolfishly, "You've gone soft." House smiles; he knows Wilson won't say anything.

"Yeah." He walks away, his cane silent on the concrete. Wilson is left alone with his thoughts and a thanks echoes out to him. He's not smiling anymore. Instead, he tries to figure out the logistics of his new feelings. The ring on his finger absorbs the sunlight, burns him, and he twists it absently. The sun is hot now and he's looking at it, wondering why it chose today to reveal love. The gold in his eyes is bright. Its source leaves trails down his face, which he wipes away as he returns to his office. The darkness blinds him when he enters.

Wilson pulls the bottle that will put him to sleep out of his pocket and swallows numbly. He stays there on the roof and prays to a god he doesn't believe in.

"Over thirty bottles were found in the apartment, along with two vials of morphine."

Tritter sits on the stand, looking at House as he gives his testimony. House looks back, but his gaze is drawn to his pocket as it buzzes. He wonders why briefly, as he has no patients. The phone is flipped open.

"What?"

"House, is Wilson there with you?" Cameron's vice (concerned) emanates from the receiver.

"No, he's at the hospital."

"Well, his car's here. I paged him for a consult in the clinic, but he won't answer. He' not in his office or yours, or the oncology lounge. I've even tried his home and cell."

"I'll be right there." House gets up.

"Where do you think you're going?" The Judge is annoyed. This is her arena.

"Emergency. Patient. I have to take this, before my license is revoked, that is." And then he's gone, breezing by the Judge's threats of contempt. He's at the hospital quicker than he should be, but Cuddy's Mercedes handles well and he tells himself to thank her when he returns the keys he palmed as they got out of the car before the trial.

His office is deserted except for Cameron, who seems to be waiting for him.

"You've checked everywhere?" He says by way of greeting.

"Of course. He wasn't anywhere in the hospital."

"He wouldn't be, would he?" And House knows where he is. He's in the hall before Cameron can reply. Elevator doors close as she follows into the hall. House is in the enclosed space, willing the pulleys to speed up, to get there sooner. He's pressed the top floor and is ready to give hell to anyone who's too lazy to take the stairs. But then the doors stop and he's climbing the stairs to the room. His leg aches immediately but he's not stopping. Then he's outside and immediately finds what he's after.

Wilson is there, sitting near the edge of the roof. He's slumped over but his breath is visible in smoky wisps. House gets closer and sees that Wilson's mouth is slightly blue. He's shaking Wilson, calling his name. He's not waking up right away so House is lifting his hand, then brings it down swiftly. It's like a hand hitting water; it makes a sharp sound that echoes through the stillness.

"Ow." Wilson is peering through half-closed eyes at House, who's shaking with adrenaline.

"You stupid asshole." He's on Wilson's chest; his fingers are on the pulse in Wilson's neck. It's strong. "What were you doing?"

"I don't know, I came up here and just….fell asleep."

"There are better places to do that."

"I know. I'm sorr—"

"Just come on."

"Where?"

"You're coming to watch me go to jail."

They move together. Wilson is shivering but he doesn't have frostbite. They move down the floors and House finds a way to warm the younger man up. They break apart when they hit the ground floor, but House pulls Wilson by his jacket sleeve until they're in the parking lot. He leads Wilson to Cuddy's car, where he's assured the Mercedes was loaned willingly. They sit in the car for a few minutes with the heat on high.

"Ever got it on in a car?" House looks out the window as he says this; he could be asking for the car.

"No."

"First time for everything."

Wilson moves closer to House, moves his head until they're facing each other. House is clean-shaven; Wilson hasn't seen him this way since before the infarction. He rubs his cheek against House's and feels the smooth skin glide across his own. His lips meet the older man's, then continue down his jaw. House lifts his chin, sighs a little, and Wilson can see him as a little boy, sleepy and satisfied. But then House draws breath in and there's nothing child-like about the gasp. It's an expression of pleasure in the purest form (because words can never really express pleasure; it's only in exclamations, physical jerks, eyes rolling back, breathing, that it means anything). House is breathing his name, but he's mumbling James, not Wilson. He can't remember House ever using his real name and he kissing the neck underneath his lips, trying to make physical the emotions he feels. Hands move around his own neck; fingertips run along his jaw line, up his cheeks, into his hair, massage his hair. He wants nothing more than to continue, but he pulls away from the embrace, only to meet House's eyes. They all but order him back, but he refuses, saying they can't christen Cuddy's car.

House is annoyed.

"Last chance." He says, eyes on Wilson, daring him to deny it.

"It's not." Wilson says, praying his voice is more confident than his mind. He orders House to get back to court. House starts the car, and they drive in silence to what feels like the end of the world.


	10. Last Nite

Wilson is having an out-of-body experience. He thinks it happened sometime after he entered the courthouse. He came in, sat down, watched as House took his place near his lawyer. The judge gave House a withering look and then the proceedings continued. Wilson tasted stale coffee and wished he had a mint.

It was then, he thinks, that he stepped outside of himself. He remembers looking around, his vision going black for a moment, then returning a second later. It's odd, but he doesn't make much of it—until he realizes he's sitting next to himself.

_What was in that coffee?_

Wilson moves a hand in front of his face—his body's face (wonders if _this_ is what insanity feels like) and there's no reaction, he's slightly worried. When the hand that reaches touch the body next to him moves through cloth and flesh like objects through water, Wilson withdraws the 'slightly' and is now more than quite distressed. He's so engrossed in his own situation (a somewhat valid distraction) that he doesn't see Cuddy take the stand. But then he hears her voice and he's looking at her, watching her in awe as she deftly spins a story.

"The defendant did pick up the prescription, then?" The prosecutor paces in front of Cuddy, who stares at him lazily. Her blue eyes follow him, but only to meet his, to show him he doesn't intimidate her. She's not afraid.

"Yes. Dr. House did pick up a prescription."

"A prescription? Not Oxycodone?"

"No, actually. Dr. Wilson had brought to my attention the fact that Dr. House had tried to steal the patient's pills earlier. I thought he might try again, so I replaced them with placebos."

Tritter is on his feet, all but shouting.

"She's lying, your honor. She's just trying to keep him out of jail." The judge looks at Tritter for a moment before answering.

"In my court, Detective, you will not speak unless called to the stands. She addresses Cuddy now.

"Do you have any record of this replacement?" House's lawyer answers to this.

"Yes we do, your Honor. Exhibit eight." He motions to Cuddy. "May I show the witness the exhibit to verify authenticity?" The judge motions yes, and Cuddy is shown the document. She verifies her signature.

"She forged that!" Tritter spits, on his feet once more.

"Detective. One more outburst and you'll be spending the night with Dr. House in contempt. Are there any valid objections that can negate this documents?" Tritter doesn't answer, so the judge proceeds.

"The court accepts exhibit eight." The Judge examines the document she's taken from House's lawyer before speaking.

"With this new evidence, I feel there is no need to continue the trial. The charges for intent to sell are also dropped; Detective, I don't see why they were drawn in the first place. You know how discovery works, correct?"

Tritter looks at the Judge for a moment. The expression in his eyes is unreadable, then he smiles. "Yes, your Honor."

"Dr. House will spend the night in jail, then return to rehabilitation. Case dismissed." Guards move to take House, when the older man looks behind him.

"Wilson!"

Wilson feels a sort of pulling, a shifting. He feels heavier, hears the echo of his heart in his head and then he's standing. House has broken away from the guards (Nimble. They don't expect it) and he's touching Wilson, pulling him close. There's a quick kiss between them and then House is gone. A hand rests lightly on his shoulder and Cuddy's leaning into him, telling him visiting hours start at five and that they'll come back.

He's still getting used to feeling solid, but manages to look at Cuddy in amazement.

"You, why did you?—" She shushes him quietly; they're still in a courthouse, where perjury is considered a no-no.

"Outside." Her hand clasps his elbow and practically drags him up. He's walking, following her and they're by her car, where she can't seem to find her keys. But she unzips a pocket and declares i this /i is why she always keeps a spare (Wilson swallows hard and realizes that 'borrowed' was House's way of saying "Eh, they'll find out about it eventually). But then they're in the black Mercedes and Wilson blushes; the image of his and House's……activities flashes in his mind and he looks down at his feet. Time passes and neither of them speak; the hospital appears in front of them and they get out. Cuddy walks away, mumbling about how she thought she had more gas than that, then suddenly stops.

"House." She turns to look at Wilson and he grins sheepishly; there's nothing he can do now but offer her gas money, which she declines. She tells him to meet her out here at 5:30; they can share a car or he can follow her.

House sits in a jail cell. It isn't so bad, he muses (the fact that he won't be spending an extended period of time in something similar probably influences this), but it could use a TV. He's bored, and there's no one to watch.

He thinks about Cuddy. Why she did it, what she was going to do to him when he got out of rehab. He wasn't worried, but he was curious. She had no reason to save him; she had everything to lose (but she picked a side and stayed there). House is glad Wilson was there, but when he glanced back at him a few times, during the testimonies, it was almost as if he….wasn't.

Wilson's eyes had been glazed; his gaze was unfocused. He was slumped a little, using the back of the seat to support his weight. It was only when House had touched him that the man had seemed to wake up, to be present. But he can't find an answer, and this bores him. Again. So he lies back, tries to sleep (for a few hours, anyway. He knows he'll see Wilson later—Cuddy too, unfortunately).

Wilson absentmindedly rolls House's pain meds between his hands. He's retrieved them from Voldemort, and found that the name is fitting. The man barely looked at him when handing over the pills, but called out to Wilson's retreating back.

"Makes sure those go straight to him." Wilson looks at the man, incredulous.

"We're not all addicts, Vol—" Wilson stops himself before the name passes his lips. He looks quickly at the large man's tag. "Symons."

He's in House's office (he's been in his far too often over these past few days) on the leather chair. Tiredness weighs down on him and he stares blankly into space, letting the delicious exhaustion pull at his eyes. He feels like he hasn't slept for days, thought that's all he's been doing lately. It's that buzzing feeling, being spread too thin; muscles can't relax, eyes can't focus. Words don't come easily in a sluggish mind. Staying awake tires him; it's like fighting to come up for air. He swims, fights his way to the top, but staying above the surface drains him. So he gets up, stretches and feels his muscles twinge with pleasure. He doesn't notice that Cameron, Foreman and Chase sit in the next room until the door near him swings open and the all but fall over themselves to hear the verdict. All but Foreman, that is. He stakes his time, moves calmly behind the others into House's office.

When the news is delivered, Cameron sighs in relief; Chase looks at her for a moment but quickly smiles. Foreman's expression doesn't change, but he lets out a gruff, derisive laugh.

"Of course he'd get off." He leaves, goes back through the lounge and is on his way, briefcase clutched in hand. Chase and Cameron leave together and Wilson goes to Cuddy's office.

House is still sleeping when his visitors arrive.

"House." The man in question's eyes open immediately.

"Man of the hour," he sits up, grins at them. Cuddy moves closer to the bars. Whispers.

"I perjured myself for you. When I get through with you at the clinic, you're going to _wish _ you had been in jail. You're mine. Got it?" She waits for a response. House nods, and she leaves, her heels clicking loudly.

"Hey," House moves closer to the bars, puts his arm through. "Come here."

So Wilson does, but he's looking down.

"What's the matter?" He tried to touch Wilson, to see what's wrong, but cool metal restricts his reach. Wilson looks up then, and his eyes are bright.

"I was sure you were—" he cuts himself off, doesn't say it. The feelings he's been numbing with sleep are bubbling to the surface. Shock, anger, fear. Love. Guilt. He's watched House almost die, had sex with him, worried about him, feared for him, almost froze on a roof over him. Wilson's shaking and he catches himself with the bars.

But he looks into House's eyes, and something in him stops. Stops looking to the past, regretting everything (fearing everything. Hating himself). He's staring at the future, and he's finally ready to live through it.

"It was worth it." House somehow knows what this means. He smiles a little.

"You're such a girl." But it's his long fingers that wrestle through the bars to touch Wilson's hair, his lips that press against Wilson's forehead gently, like a parent checking for a fever.

"Oh, here." Wilson fumbles for something, remembering himself. He pulls out the pills and gives them to House, who takes them but tosses the bottle on the bed.

"Aren't you going to take those?"

"Wilson," House's eyes are dark, and he's looking at Wilson with hunger (a dying man would seem less eager). "Be here as early as you can tomorrow."

"But rehab—"

"I'll go back. But you'll need to take the day off."

"Why?"

"Because when I get through with you, you won't want to walk."


	11. Backdrifts

The jail cell around House is cool; dampness seeps through the thin blanket that shrouds his body. His body is clammy but that discomfort is nothing compared to the throbbing agony he calls a leg. The bottle of pills from Voldemort is on the floor next to him; he flails an arm down blindly, feeling for the cylinder that caries relief. His fingers hit the cold floor below a few times until they reach plastic. The top is off in a second and he swallows two, feels them slide down his throat with that familiar taste. He couldn't believe how easy it had been to bribe that idiot to get it for him. He relaxes; the pain will dissipate shortly and he'll fall into warm sedation, that glorious state where everything matters a little less. So he lays there, waits for the Vicodin to kick in, and thinks about how well this ended. Everything will be alright.

The sun is an integral part of life. It helps people tell time; makes their bodies produce vitamin D. House cannot see the sun. He sits on his cot with his neatly folded blanket, fully dressed. Waiting. He waits for seven o'clock, when he'll be released. When he'll see Wilson. But there are no windows in his cell (for obvious reasons). No light shines through. He's suspended in a stretch of time, immersed in darkness so tangible it feels like a presence; the dark and cold work together to keep him, wrap themselves around him, weave through his internal organs. They play for keeps. He listens for footsteps, for Wilson, with his entire being. When he hears them, his eyes stay planted on the ceiling. He won't move until he hears a voice. Proof.

"House," The voice is gentle, a caress that moves across his skin, teasing. He's up, vaulting toward the doors. His hands pull Wilson's form in, crushing him against the bars, making it easier to touch all of him.

"Stand back," another voice orders. A police officer House didn't see stands next to Wilson. House doesn't want to move, doesn't want to break contact but releases Wilson, who steps back on rubbery legs. The door is opened.

"Hands against the wall," the officer orders. House complies, muttering obscenities under his breath. Hands pat his frame, moving down his ribs, across his hips, down his legs. He's turned around when the search is over; told he can collect his cane at the front desk. He's following the officer, looking at Wilson, unable to stop a smile from stretching his lips. Wilson smiles back, but his eyes stray from House's face.

"You forgot your pills," and he's moving before House can comprehend what was said. He moves to intercept Wilson, stop him. Tell him he doesn't need them; he can get more at rehab. But the younger man already has the bottle in his hands; he frowns at House but hands over the pills.

"Here," he says, watching House. "Why don't you take one?"

"I'm alright for now." Neither says anything while House signs his release forms. Wilson avoids his gaze; his eyebrows are creased, almost drawn together. He walks out of the building, his gait too fast for House. There's snow on the ground and the older man moves carefully, looking for ice. He approaches the car and gets in quickly; the warmth hits him and he sighs into it, letting it fill him. He closes his eyes and relaxes against the heated seat. Wilson looks at him now, reaches a hand out to touch the older man's tired face. His fingers move through overgrown stubble, up to House's cheekbones. The soft skin is thin; Wilson can see the hint of a bright blue vein. He touches it, feels a faint pulse. His hand drops away, moves back to his lap, but is caught by House, whose eyes are now open. Fingers weave through his; they keep him close.

"That's Vicodin, isn't it?" Wilson's voice is loud in the enclosed space. House wants to lie. He looks into Wilson's eyes; they're not the same. Something's wrong. They're closed off, almost dead-looking. Wilson stares at House, waiting for an answer.

"Yes." Wilson nods once, twice. He blinks and looks back at House with that same look—the same lack of emotion. In that moment, House understands. Wilson has given everything to him—everything he could afford to give, and some things he couldn't. And House took and took, filing it away with sincerity, with the promise that he would try; he would do it for Wilson because he cared. But he stopped trying. And everything he ever told Wilson has become a lie. And now Wilson stands before him, hollowed out. Empty. House has effectively rotted the only person he cares about.

"Wilson, I'm so—" House begins to apologize, to take back what he's done, but Wilson looks at him with such a look of hatred that he fumbles. Words, the only thing he has, fail him. Impenetrable eyes look at him, daring him to speak.

"You what, House?" The voice is flat. It's in House's head, rebounding painfully, ripping him apart. He's filled with regret and it hurts—hurts so much worse that withdrawal or even his leg; it's unfamiliar and he doesn't know how to make it go away, doesn't know how to fix what he broke. So he tells Wilson nothing, mumbles something about going back to rehab and lets his forehead hit the cool glass of the window. The car starts. House expects Wilson to drive fast, to try to get away from him as soon as possible, but the drive is slow. Even so, the hospital is in front of them far too quickly. When the car stops, Wilson moves to get out, but pauses. He speaks to House without looking back.

"Go to rehab. You should probably tell Cuddy, too." And then he's out of the car, moving fast. Putting as much distance as he can between himself and House, who remains in the car, thinking. Wilson's voice wasn't angry anymore. It wasn't upset or hurt; it was nothing. He spoke in a monotone, wasting no energy on House. Not caring.

_He doesn't care anymore.  
_

The door closes loudly behind him, echoing through the parking lot. House makes his way to the third floor.

Wilson moves quickly through the halls, getting to his office in record time. He shuts the blinds, turns off the lights so he won't be bothered. He sits down on his couch and feels…strange. There's something wrong with him, and he doesn't know how to fix it. He just feels…off. The image of House is in his head (he can't get it out), but there's no emotion connected to it. No feeling. Nothing. He's numb towards the man; completely apathetic. He thinks that maybe he poured too much of himself into House; cared too much, felt too much. But instead of being horrified of the shell he's become, Wilson is thankful. Giddy, almost. House released him. He doesn't have to care about the man ever again. Won't need to worry about whether House will overdose, if he'll die of liver failure. He's done babysitting, and it feels good. He likes this feeling, this numbness. He thinks maybe he'll ask Cameron out; fuck her and leave. It doesn't matter. Nothing does.

House is in pain. He shouldn't be; he took two Vicodin an hour earlier. But his body won't concede the point; his entire body aches and he's laying down so he won't pass out. It's like nothing he's ever felt before so he can't control it, can't make it go away. He's curled up in agony, barely treading through the waves of pain and nausea that roll through his body like a ship in a storm. He can't stop his mind either; he's a captive audience as it plays back moments, fragments of the past week. Wilson in agony, watching him overdose. Dark eyes half-lidded, rolled back in ecstasy under him. The smell of Wilson as he walks by, his cologne lingering when he leaves. Soft lips on his, the taste of a different tongue in his mouth. Wilson laughing, watching TV. Wilson sleeping, jerking in his sleep. Wilson, looking at him like a stranger; like he doesn't want to know House anymore. Eyes filled with hate. Disgust.

He's sorry, a feeling he hasn't had since he was a child. It's that same feeling; he's not good enough. He only causes trouble. But now, it's not the irrational guilt of a child. He is to blame for Wilson (effectively killed him). He has ruined a man and he doesn't think it can be fixed. So he'll sit here in rehab, in psychic pain until he's released. And then he'll try to fix things. It's the only thing he can do.


	12. Angel

A/N Hey guys; I thought I'd interpret the dream House has here, because it doesn't really make sense to do so in the story. The injured hands symbolize guilt; the falling is a lack of security, control, or support in life. The water/drowning is symbolic of an overwhelming, repressed issue that's coming back to haunt you. The death of a friend/loved one symbolizes a characteristic in that person (the one who has died) that you lack. Aaaaand that's my psych interpretation for the chapter. Enjoy.

----------------------------

In House's dream, he's being suspended over Niagara Falls. He grasps the rope that supports him for dear life; he looks up to see where it begins, but it disappears into the fog above. He's sweating, straining to support his weight. A breeze sends him spinning, moving back and forth wildly like a pendulum on speed. His hands burn and his face is splashes with wet warmth; his hands are splitting open, sending rivulets of hot blood down his forearms and he thinks unconsciously that the image would make a good picture. But then his mind is brought back to the fact that his grip is loosening; he's slipping away from his lifeline. He begins to slide, slowly at first, then so fast the rope feels like butcher knives, slicing into his thin skin. When he lets go, it's out of reflex. His body is quelling the most immediate pain. He's in the air for a moment, long enough to try to suck in wet air and then he's falling so fast that his skin vibrates, pulsates like a heartbeat. His eyes close instinctively, protect the soft flesh beneath and he feels the air around him, so strong it burns. He curls into a ball, hopes that he'll die on impact because he doesn't want to drown.

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He knows what it feels like to suck in water hoping for air. He'd snuck away from the base in California, giddy with excitement. He'd be back before his dad had to leave. The sand is cool under his feet and he sits on the beach for a few minutes, enjoying the sound of the waves against the beach. It's barely light out but the morning was unusually warm and the swells were big; he waxed his board quickly and ran into the ocean. It enveloped him, splashing over his wetsuit, soaking his hair until it was plastered to his scalp. He paddles out leisurely, takes his time. He's the only person there. His arms are strong; they glide through the water and he turns himself around. Waits. Then he sees it; a massive wave coming for him, waiting for him. It's moving fast and he barely has time to get into position but then he's inside it, moving through it. With it; he reaches out and his fingers pass through the wall of water. He's almost out when it happens. His board gets caught and he's spinning; he's in water, being pushed to the bottom and his feet are over his head. He's still strapped to the board but can't see it. He looks up at the surface, shades of grey that bend and coil in his water-logged eyes. He waits for the wave to pass but then he hits the bottom, which would be fine except there's a jagged rock there, waiting to connect with his scull.

It does and he sees black at first, then all the colors of the rainbow. He can't move. He's trapped in his body, watching from above or near and he sees himself, watches as he's tossed about like pollen on the breeze. Then he can feel again and he's out of air; he pushes toward the surface, prays he'll break through in time. But he doesn't; he inhales and water goes where it shouldn't but then his head pushes through the water and he can see the sky again. He scrambles toward the shore, half running, half swimming. He lays down on the beach and stays there until he thinks he can get up without vomiting. He does, and turns to see red sand where his head was.

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House falls still, going fast now and he sees land under him instead of water. He's so close now, seconds away from painting the ground under him bright red. The impact, when it finally does happen, is not what he expects. The ground supports him, moves under him. Cradles him. He lies on his back, looking up at a ceiling and wonders where his is, but stops mid-thought when he sees a figure in front of him. He can't make out any details; somehow the person is enveloped in shadow. The presence moves, brings an arm up to its head and House hears a sound that everyone recognizes, a sound that can only be one thing. He's covered then, hit by splatters of liquid and small objects that feel like pebbles. He swiped a hand over his face and examines it._ Brain matter. _The thought is detached; the observation of a doctor. He steps in front of the person, looks closer at what seems to be a man and watches almost passively as his breakfast is regurgitated on his shoes.

Wilson lies on the floor in a puddle of his own blood.

House wakes with a start, sits up with his hands spread in front of him. He gasps, tries to catch his breath and assure himself that everything's ok. Wilson is alive. His dream floods back and he lets out a chuckle that has no humor in it. His subconscious is beating him over the head for his mistakes (dream interpretation bullshit); he's not sleeping much and when he does it's that same dream. Over and over; it makes him restless, turns his sleep into a half-lucid nightmare stuck on repeat. He's awake now and he won't go back. It's not worth it to try. He rolls over, looks at the clock.

It's his last day; he can leave after breakfast. So he waits until the smell of cheap oatmeal and frozen pancakes waft to his room. He gets dressed quickly, picks out clothes without looking and goes to eat. He chooses the oatmeal; he won't be reminded of Wilson by comparing the cardboard-imitating-pancakes to those he's used to. The oatmeal is goopy. There's too much water in it; it has congealed and when it slides down his throat he can't help but think of mucous. He shudders at that but finishes quickly, burning his tongue in the process. He clears his tray, picks up his meds from Voldemort and goes to check out. The psychiatrist is there, waiting for him. Looking at him behind those oh-so-posh glasses. The 'doctor' congratulates him, holds out a hand that is left hanging. House ignores him, grunts something like goodbye, and signs his release forms.

He's in front of Wilson's office almost instantaneously; his hand hovers over the knob and he thinks of knocking but squashes the thought. The door opens and Wilson is revealed, sitting behind his desk, staring into space. House knows he's been heard, knows his presence is felt but Wilson doesn't look up. Instead, his gaze is focused out the window. What he's seeing and thinking can't be discerned by the neutral expression on his face, though House knows the waters underneath Wilson's well-executed façade are anything but serene.

"Wilson," he says. He wants to be seen. He doesn't know how to be ignored. But when the younger man does look at him, House wishes he wouldn't. The gaze is empty, vacant; the type of look reserved for only the most hated.

"How was rehab?" The voice that comes from Wilson sounds right; the tone is on, the pitch is perfect. But there's something wrong. Something off. House feels it and it's like the word is spinning under him; he doesn't know how to make this right; he doesn't know if he'll let himself.

"You know how it was. Did you tell Cuddy?" He's moving, swinging his cane back and forth. Waiting for the real Wilson to appear (waiting for the pod person to abdicate his host's body).

"I did."

"And?" Wilson's hand moves to his neck; he rubs the spot just under his hairline and blinks a few times.

"You're not fired." Wilson opens his desk drawer, pulls out a pad. A prescription pad. He tosses it at House without warning, smirks when it bounces off the older man's jacket and hits the floor. House sees this but bends down anyway to retrieve it. His leg protests on the way down but he straightens himself quickly, pad in hand. The pages are filled out, every one of them. Wilson's signature stands at the bottom; the only missing ink is the date.

"Wilson," it's slow and thick, his voice, and it when it comes out it surprises him. It doesn't sound like him. "I'm sorry." Wilson looks at him, really looks at him for the first time.

"Yeah," he says. "You are." He looks like he's going to continue but changes his mind. Presses his lips together as if trying to keep the words in. But they come out, push past Wilson's teeth, over his mouth which is almost bared at House (looks like he wants to rip him apart).

"All you do is take. You poison everything and everyone around you. I should have left you in your apartment to drown in your own vomit." Wilson seems to be surprised when the words clear the air; they make the silence as sharp as knives, and he's drawn blood. The wound is deep and efficient. He's cut House as badly as he can. The older man nods, backs out of the office and leaves Wilson alone, sitting in his office to decide whether he's gone too far.

So it goes.

And so the days pass by. The invisible lines that once connected House to Wilson have polarized; now they separate, keep apart. Both men live their lives while blackness fills the place inside them where hope used to be, but neither notices it much. They're used to disappointment now. Neither looks to the future; instead they live in the present, day by day. Getting through minutes and hours that try to rip them apart, try to eat them alive. They think of each other sometimes, often at the same moment, just before sleep. Sometimes House leans on the wall of his terrace and wills Wilson to come out, but it serves to be a useless endeavor. He goes home at night, alone (always alone), and just tries to make it through the night. Sometimes it's all he can do.

THE END.

(But not to worry; there will be an epilogue)


	13. Mad World

(And so the men went through their lives like parallel lines; never again to touch. One moved away, left the other to himself. But the wounds never healed. When either thought of the other, fresh blood was drawn. New scratches were made. Until one day, there was nothing left to think about.)

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House is in a park, sprawled on a picnic table. His head is tilted toward the sun, eyes closed. A breeze runs over him and he breathes with it, relaxes into its cool touch. He's been here awhile; he's beginning to get drowsy but the first stages of sleep feel _good_, so he doesn't mind. He's smiling up at the sun when a shadow falls over his face. He opens his eyes but the light is bright and he sees stars for a moment; the figure is shadowy, inconsistent. There aren't many details. It stands near the edge of the table, a swirling mix of human colors and features. House looks where eyes should be, tries to find some familiarity, but sees nothing. The pale smoke of the figure's face is clear; dark lashes protect invisible eyes.

"Hey," House speaks first, if only to be perceived as brave.

"Hi," the figure moves forward like the wind; uninhibited. More free than human beings could ever be. . House sits up, gets off the top of the table and sits properly. He gestures for his guest to do the same.

"How was it?" House's voice is calm, but inside he's anything but.

"I've made so many mistakes," the figure leans toward House, tries to feel humanity by proximity. "I feel like my life got away from me." House watches as details of the man's form begin to fill themselves in. The border between the outline of his body and the park closes; details no longer mix together, overlapping until you can't differentiate the two. There's a beginning and an end.

"I know that feeling," House inches closer to the vaporous form. "I think we all do."

"No, but I—I was so wrong. I thought I was trying to help, but all I did was inflict pain. There was a war in my head almost; I wanted to go back, to just make it how it used to be, but I thought it was too late."

"And I was waiting for you to win the war;" House whispers, a sad smile twisting his features. He looks wistful, a look never seen on him in life. He looks back at the figure and is staring into eyes that have depth, color. It spreads through his body; skin takes on color, hair becomes solid. Tangible. It's as if an artist were painting the man in front of him, filling in each feature. And then the painting's complete. There is a finished man in front of him.

"Wilson." It's one word, but it encompasses everything House has ever wanted to say. It's every regret he's had about letting Wilson go, watching the man leave without really trying to get him back. Without trying to fix what he'd broken. He'd tried to, in the end. He'd gotten on that train to New York, daring not to hope. He'd accept whatever Wilson had to say. And when the train came off its tracks, when it careened down the side of a hill and threw the passengers around like limp rag-dolls, he thought of Wilson. Thought of his eyes. His mouth; the way the man touched him and made his problems, his shortcomings go away. He lay on ceiling of the train, holding a woman's hand in his own; a detached seat pinned on top of him. He died there, thinking of Wilson, wishing the hand in his was Wilson's. When his grip went slack, the woman next to him began to cry. She knew she didn't have long.

"How?" House asks, unable to form full sentences.

"I got mugged." House reaches for Wilson now, gets up and walks over the table; nothing holds him back. He's whole again. His hand brushes Wilson's and images form in his mind. It's late; Wilson walks quickly down a well-lit street, doesn't notice the man walking quickly behind him. He's on his phone, apologizing for being late. He had to help a patient. He doesn't expect to be grabbed from behind, pulled into an alley. His phone hits the ground; a sharp metallic crack rings out and he hopes someone heard it.

"Money," the man in front of him says. He's tall, skinny. His hair is long, greasy; hangs in his face. He's not wearing a mask and Wilson can see his eyes; they're dark, animal eyes. Desperate. He reaches for his wallet, fumbles for it in his back pocket, but it's not there.

"It's gone," he says, panic rising. "I must have left it at my office, just—" But Wilson doesn't get to finish his sentence; two shots ring out and a man moves back onto the street, leaving him alone.

House's vision clears and he's holding Wilson, pressing him close.

"Who walks on the back streets of New York at night?"

"You're going to yell at me _now_? Wilson pulls away, looks at House and finds he's laughing. Laughing so hard he's shaking, bent over, gasping for air he's not really breathing.

"On a mobile; my god, Wilson." The voice is strangles, breathless. Wilson laughs too, now, because if he doesn't he'll cry. This is all too confusing. House stops laughing after while. He stops Wilson's mix of gasps and sobs by pressing his lips on the younger man's; it's an apology, this kiss. It speaks of regret and sorrow and wasted time, wasted anger that destroyed both of them. They break away a few times, look into each other's eyes, affirm that this is reality. That this is happening. And then they kiss again; lock themselves into each other, and take comfort in knowing that they'll be ok. That this is something that will last as long as they do (eternity).


End file.
